


half of the sky

by orphan_account



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Gen, Parental Death, all lowercase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hold it up. / The women of Avatar and their perspectives on fighting. Mostly pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	half of the sky

.katara.

she stops waterbending after her mother is killed. one day, she finishes her chores before nightfall (there's a lot of them now that mom is gone) and goes out to the shore to practice, but it makes her remember ash falling from the sky and strangled cries and the coppery stench of blood and fear that's a thousand times colder than the tundra settling in the pit of her stomach, and she gets sad when she thinks about that, so she runs back into her igloo to get a head start on tomorrow's breakfast.

there's enough things for her to be sad about, anyway. sokka's trying to turn the village toddlers into a defense force and leaves her with most of the work while he plays soldier, dad's eyes have taken on a haunted, restless look, gran-gran expects her to take on the role of a woman of the tribe even though she's only nine, and all she has left of mom is a beautifully carved necklace she'd trade in a heartbeat for the breathing person that once possessed it.

she's eleven, determinedly washing one of sokka's dirty parkas and seething over how she always picks up after him without so much as a word of appreciation, when gran-gran observes her for a few moments. "if you bent, that would be done much faster."

katara tenses. "i don't want to," she replies, hating how petulant she sounds.

"well, if you're stupid enough to clean by hand, be my guest," gran-gran snaps back. "denying part of yourself won't bring your mother back, child," she adds, voice softer this time.

"she died protecting me. if i wasn't a waterbender, the raiders wouldn't have come in the first place." the rhythmic motion of the scrub brush distracts her from the tears prickling behind her eyes. she's too old to cry.

"the fire nation is responsible for her death," the older woman fiercely remarks. " _never_ forget that. and what they've done is done. there's no point to pretending otherwise. kya was proud of your gift. don't waste it and let the raiders break you."

she wrings out the sodden parka, hesitates, and bends the remaining water out from the garment. life, somehow, continues. there are no terrifying images flooding her senses, just a dry coat that she won't have to hang on the line. gran-gran is smiling— a rare occurence. katara smiles briefly into the bucket, too.

.toph.

she is weak, delicate, fragile, helpless, simply because she's blind— her 'unfortunate condition', as her mother puts it, sounding as patronizing as possible in the space of those two words. and no matter what she does, she cannot convince anyone otherwise.

her parents are ashamed of her, ashamed of having a malformed daughter instead of a strong son and heir— why else would they sequester her within the confines of the estate, make sure that nobody except for the staff knows of her existence at all?

she hates to admit it, but she's desperately lonely. her governess is as dull as the tea ceremony she so loves, the other servants give into all of her requests as long as she doesn't misbehave, master yu has been teaching her the same basic earthbending exercises for years, mother and father rarely bother to find time for her, and she has never been allowed a single friend.

the best part of her day is after she's been smothered in sheets for the night. because, then, everybody in the house has gone to bed as well, and it's child's play to sneak out into the courtyard and practice _real_ bending, the kind with dirt and rocks and the odd lesson from badgermoles. the earth doesn't assume her incompetent or make excuses for her blindness— it forces her to adjust, to register the ground's minute vibrations in lieu of seeing them. the earth protects her better than any of her parent's restrictions.

age only makes her more daring. she graduates from training on the grounds to sneaking into gaoling proper— dangerous for a young girl alone yet a thousand times better than the daily drudgery of home. quickly, she learns which districts to avoid, the street vendors that sell the best shish kebobs (what a relief to be able to eat with her hands, outdoors, without someone leaning over her shoulder to cut up her meat), where to find cheap entertainment. she's back in her bedchamber before the sun rises, careful to cover her tracks entirely.

she stumbles upon the earth rumble by accident, but after spectating for five minutes, decides that she has never felt more at home in her life. she contents herself with merely watching for the first few weeks, then registers as a competitor— she'll never improve if she doesn't have sparring partners, and though she has no use for the prize money, she does like the thought of the champion belt around her waist. her first opponent laughs so hard he chokes when he sees her at the opposite end of the arena. once she sends a rock spike towards his balls, he's not quite as amused.

the audience loves her— they're the ones who scream 'blind bandit' from the stands and clamor for her autograph at the end of matches. she thrives off of their attention, though she'd never admit it. standing in the center of the ring, victorious as usual, listening to adoring screams and the groans of her adversary— it feels _good_. she's admired instead of coddled here.

in this peculiar way, without any formal sifus, scrolls, or katas, toph bei fong becomes the greatest earthbender in the world.

.suki.

at eight, she's fetching pails of water from the well and decides to take a quick peek inside the dojo on her way back. she's always been curious about what the warriors do in there— she isn't disappointed. they're lined up in neat rows, practicing intricate kicks and spins with their golden fans in hand, perfectly in sync. how do they not trip over the hems of their robes? she couldn't be half as graceful in her play clothes.

suddenly, the girl at the front stops and stares straight at her— the others follow her lead. "who are you?" she asks kindly.

her face flushes. how embarassing to be caught spying! "suki," she manages to squeak out.

the girl smiles, recognizing her from around town. "i'm cho. do you want to try a few moves? i think we have some training fans lying around in here..."

 "i would, but..." here she gestures helplessly at the water she needs to deliver.

"lin," cho says, turning around, "can you take these to mrs. matsuda? you know where she lives— in the green house by the general store. come here, suki— let me do your face paint."

every day after that, without fail, she practices tessenjutsu and, later, swordfighting. she loves the art, loves the smooth way her body obeys her will, loves feeling like she belongs most of all. her family isn't native— they're refugees, attracted to kyoshi's neutrality. now that she's a proper warrior, the rest of the villlagers are beginning to warm up to them.

when she's fourteen, she becomes the leader. cho and all the others have long since gotten married and started families of their own, and she's been training for longer than anyone else. now she has her own trainees, twelve bright-eyed girls as eager to learn as she once was.

the ceremony is short but incredibly important, and most of the village shows up to watch. chief oyaji delicately places the crown atop her auburn head, then steps back, pride shining in his eyes. he's always been like a grandfather to her. "do you swear to defend those under your command to the best of your ability, warrior suki? will you train them to be capable of defending kyoshi island if need be?"

"i do," she says, trying her best to keep her voice steady. the village cheers. she can only hope that she will live up to their expectations.

.mai.

she learns to throw knives because she's horrible at every other weapon. girls at the royal fire academy advance their combat trading during their fifth year there— she's not a firebender and loathes the aikido she's been studying, so she picks the least painful option.

but she can barely lift a battleax over her head, much less swing it, feels like a barbarian wielding a mace, trips over her staff, proves terrible at archery, and finds that swords remind her far too much of zuko. when the instructor gives her a set of shuriken, it's with an air of resigned annoyance. "try to hit the circle," she says, scowling, gesturing towards the target at the end of the room.

she takes one, raises her arm the way she's been shown, and throws. the blade neatly lodges itself into the light wood, a few inches outside the boundaries. not perfect, but not bad for a first attempt, either.

mai likes them. knives are subtle and delicate— one careful flick of her wrist and she can cut someone's jugular open, let their life blood spill out onto the floor without so much as a whisper. if she slipped a few up her sleeves, she could be armed to the teeth and still look like a proper lady on the outside.

shuriken it is. she's always been good at hiding.

.ty lee.

hurting people isn't something she enjoys. azula knows this and tries to stamp it out of her— she does not succeed. she simply cannot fathom deriving sadistic glee from seeing an enemy crash and burn.

"you're so _talented_ ," azula protests, a frustrated sigh escaping her brightly painted lips. "you waste all of your potential on those stupid acrobatic tricks. you could be a _fighter_ , not some tawdry performer."

but azula doesn't get it, no matter how many times she tries to explain. she'd much rather do cartwheels and back-handsprings than use her gifts to outpace a foe. she leaves her first advanced aikido lesson in tears after hearing about how to block chi, how to deabilitate a bender and have them feebly stirring on the ground. there's nothing about battle, not the blood or glory or adrenaline, that remotely appeals to her.

that's why she sneaks out from her dormitory one night, taking only her most valued possessions, and heads for the nearest caravan without a word of goodbye. goodbyes are meaningless, and no one would understand the reasons behind her departure in the first place— not her sifus, not her sisters, not mai, the closest she has to a friend, and certainly not azula, who was born the child of a siege.

the circus is happy with their star acrobat and does not demand that she prove her worth by slaughtering half a dozen peasants. they praise her and give her the attention she's wanted for so long. she is, for once, outside of azula's influence.

until the fire princess shows up in the flesh a few years later, both more beautiful and terrible than she remembers, and she finds herself agreeing to pick up the mantle of a warrior. it is not a choice. there is no such thing as outside of azula's influence, after all.

.azula.

she is a prodigy. her firebending tutors marvel at her rapid progression through katas that would challenge someone twice her age. father admires his flawless-little-weapon as she trains, calculating how he can utilize her best, and she always, always, leaves her brother in the dust.

yet lightning challenges her. it requires perfect control, perfect movements, perfect breathing, a string of perfection that could kill her if broken. the power coursing through her veins in external form.

she's not accustomed to giving up. she works for years to prove herself _(her entire life's been devoted to overcompensating_ ) until she can shoot bolts of crackling electricity from her fingertips. now, she is a goddess on earth. she is unblemished. she is pure.

except for _one-hair-out-of-place_.

.hama.

they chain her up. they take her from her home and chain her up and throw her into a cage like an animal. dry air circulates through the vent. her arms are tied behind her back when she's allowed enough water to barely soothe her parched lips. her beloved icy tribe is a distant memory now.

she has plenty of time to think, at least, and she spends her daysweeksmonthsyears comtemplating escape. soon, she realizes that no matter how hard the fire bastards try, they can't bar her from feeling the full moon's influence on her bending. if only she could get her hands on some fluid...

inspiration strikes when she observes a rat scuttling across the floor— she loathes how even they're allowed freedom of movement while she isn't. it's horribly filthy— she doesn't even want to know what kind of parasites must be lurking in its bloodstream... blood.

it's a liquid. considering this prison's hygiene standards, she has plenty of test subjects.

carefully, slowly, delicately, she raises her arms. the rat jerks upwards. a few more slight movements and she's forced it outside the bars.

outside the bars. she envies it.

a decade passes. she perfects her technique and forces a hapless guard to set her free, manipulating his limbs as though he's a puppet and she's his master. for the first time in years beyond count, she wields the power.

she moves as quickly as her emaciated legs can manage— not very, and she constantly has to stop and catch her breath, but she doesn't mind. she's drinking in the world again. even if this part of it is inhabited by monsters.

.jun.

she's neutral. it's her policy not to form personal opinions on anything really— she's a bounty hunter, and her allegiance is to the highest bidder. taking sides is a risky endeavor. it might lead to her turning down a lucrative opportunity because of something as fickle as _morality_. besides, hers isn't a line of work that makes it easy to be good. she knows full well that the people she captures could be innocent, could be desperate to escape. it doesn't matter. it isn't her place to ask questions as long as she gets a fat purse in return.

then prince pouty shows up with his little gang, demanding that she assist them in finding the avatar despite his lack of immediate funds. at first, she scoffs at his presumption. but when he mentions the end of the world— well, that lights a fire under her ass.

is it selfish to want to help people only so that _you_ aren't immolated by pouty's psycho father? she's not sure.

.ursa.

poison is a woman's weapon, and she has no regrets about using it. if azulon must die for her son to live, she will slip hemlock into his tea without a moment's hesitation. hearing his breathing grow ragged, despite the fact that she's murdered her own father-in-law and branded herself a murderess, her only

emotion is a sick sort of glee. saying goodbye to zuko, her brave boy who tries _so_ hard and receives only scorn for his efforts, knowing she will never lay eyes on him again, is a much harder battle to fight.


End file.
